


the cruelty of time

by silmarile



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, lots of blood, uhhh this is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 06:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmarile/pseuds/silmarile
Summary: Maedhros hangs, and he waits.





	the cruelty of time

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is my official introduction back into fanfic! i hope you enjoy.  
> find me on tumblr @spacedustsilmarile

Maedhros hangs, and he waits. He does not know what he waits for, but there is nothing else to do. The pain he feels no longer distracts him, and the view is not changing enough to distract him. Morgoth has bound him inside his own body more thoroughly than he is even bound to the cliff face, trapping him inside himself, and that is the cruelest thing of all. He harbors nearly no hope of rescue (for even though he does not trust his kin he cannot make himself stop hoping). He is not a patient man, but he learns patience here, for there is nothing else for him. 

He rarely opens his eyes now. Early on, at the beginning, he never closed them. They were always open, constantly looking for a sign, anything to give him hope. Now he is weak, and tired, and hopeless, and so he keeps them closed to save what little energy his soul still has. Even with his eyes closed, he sees the cursed outline of the craggy peaks that loom before him. He knows every rock and crag of the harsh mountain range in front of him. He knows every shade of grey in the cliff face from which he hangs. The sky never clears here – it is always the same shade of dark grey, a shade ironically, horrifyingly close to the color of Curufin’s eyes. He does not wish to see his body, scarred and disused as it is. 

Maedhros has never known his body so well, and it is a cruel irony. Now, when he is at his most useless (and Feanor roars in the back of his mind you were always useless) he has never known himself so intimately. He knows every golden freckle and ivory scar on his skin, and every knot and whorl of muscle, faded from disuse but still there. He feels every bone in his body, feels the broken ones heal and knows that they are healing wrong. He feels every inch of his skin, some rubbed raw from rock or steel, and some cold and pale from lack of blood. He feels his hair tickle his back and realizes how long it is, even if the color is faded, glorious flaming red and gold now nearly brown. He cannot feel his right hand anymore, no matter how hard he tries, and he does not know whether it is because of the cold or the blood or more of Morgoth’s cruelty. 

The air always smells like fire. Sometimes it smells bloody, like iron and burnt hair. Sometimes, it smells like coal and steam, and Maedhros knows that the great war machine that is Angband is turning out weapons of malice and cruelty. It burns the inside of his nose, and later, when he is recovering amongst his brothers, one will ask what he missed the most while he was gone, and he will say he missed fresh air. For the air here is dark, and stale, and even seems faintly imbued with the hatred Morgoth pours into the land around him daily. 

As Maedhros hangs, in and out of time, he learns to discern the subtleties in the way the wind screams around his cliff face. Try as he might, he could never scream louder than it. He can tell when a storm is coming, sometimes, when the wind howls and swirls into the valley he hangs over. He would listen to the birds, and try to speak to them, but there are no birds in the Thangorodrim. They have all fled from the darkness and the unspeakable horrors that dwell here now. Every now and again, he hears faintly through the rock to which he is bound roars of great beasts, and he prays to the Valar for the safety of the people whom he cannot reach. He used to sing, used to hum to himself to calm his beating heart, but he is weak and exhausted now, and his throat is torn from screaming. 

His mouth tastes like blood. It is dry, for the only water he gets is when it storms (for it never just rains here of course it doesn’t rain here as if anything here could be gentle) and he opens his mouth, but it tastes like blood all the same. His lips bleed constantly, cracked and worn from screaming as they are. This is the least changing thing, for he can scream or close his eyes or stop breathing to change anything else, but there is no way to get rid of the taste of blood that lingers in his throat. 

He hangs, for so long, and he thinks he will hang here till the rock crumbles beneath his back. He prays sometimes. At the beginning he prayed for rescue, and now he prays for release. O Elbereth, release me from these bonds, he prays, and he does not know if he means the bonds that hold him to the rock or the bonds that hold him to the world. He learns patience slowly, and cruelly, and he gives up what little hope of rescue or salvation he ever had. He hangs, and waits, and feels his heart and his mind grow hard and cold like the steel he hangs from. And one day, one cruel, cold day, Maedhros hears singing.


End file.
